The Battle is Won
by RenaRoo
Summary: [RvB Angst War] He wakes up for the first time in years, and he wonders who he is.


Prompt: ( calysto1395 ) angst war? maine recovering/remembering himself only after killing washington

A/N: I've never been hugely interested in Maine's character so I hope this is a decent attempt on my part!

Red vs Blue and related properties © Rooster Teeth  
story © RenaRoo

 **The Battle is Won**

The voices left.

It was an instant, a flash. It knocked him back with the force of its energy, but it wasn't as if he was pushed or even knocked away by a physical power. It was purely the switch of turning the light back on in his own mind.

He hit, shoulders first, on the ground, and arched back with a gasp at the power of what was his splintered mind recovering from the multitude of overwhelming voices that had been speaking for him, _through_ him, _to_ him — all gone in a flash.

His mind was alive once again, but it _wasn't._ It was like a reboot.

As he laid on the ground, he became acutely aware of the fact that he was in armor, that the bottom of his jaw was hitting against the inside of his helmet as he unleashed a wordless, voiceless scream.

In his brain, the whiplash was almost too great — it had been left without control, without _thinking_ on its own for so long that the only things that seemed normal were the subconscious controls of his body.

Breathing. Blinking. Heart pounding. Fingers twitching.

Confusion was the very first independent thought he had in _ages._ And he could feel it, in his brain, physically aching in the side of his mind. His temples felt pressure, like an explosion was being set off in his synapses.

A dull thud. An ache.

His implants, suddenly, felt like a strong heated, hateful gash in the back of his neck.

On instinct, distracting himself from his aching brain, he reached up toward the back of his head, grabbed at the space where the implant was _burning_ but felt only kevlar and metal, hot to the exposure.

His nostrils flared and he let out painful, animalistic noises from his throat — that was _normal_ that was _old_ but it felt also _new_ and like everything else since implantation, experienced more _out of body_ than _in body._

Gripping the edges of his helmet, he tore it off, slinging it across the room.

Without his helmet, he felt fresh air on his face for the first time in ages. He could feel sweat trickling down his head as he reached back to the searing, painful implants and felt the mangled, sparking mess that was his own scalp.

What had happened?

The lights of — wherever he was — were off. Without his helmet's HUD adjustments it was hard to see, and without his armor's automatic hydraulics and responsive neural net, he was having to put all his power into his movements.

Had he been a normal man, he might not have been able to do it at all.

Computers were sparking, equipment without direction falling around him. Even with his mind on the back burner, he could put the clues together. He knew that few things could cause all electrical equipment to shut down in such a way.

An EMP.

Mustering his strength, he raised to a sitting position and breathed, collecting his thoughts. He was a _marine._ He was a _soldier._ He was an _agent._ He was… was… _M…_

Memories came flooding back. The faces of friends, the deaths of enemies, the shock and fear of those he knew. The horror and anguish of those he didn't at all. The friends who came with open arms, the friends who fought for all they had. _The ones who had been both._

It was then that a light overhead flickered sparks that fell down, bouncing against the ground beside him. And that was when he first saw that he was not as alone as he had thought.

Someone else lied on the ground, unmoving, armor tinted in a familiar red.

Eyes adjusting to the darkness, he put all of his strength into moving closer. The titanic struggle stressed all of his muscles, made it all a struggle. But he persisted. And in reward for it, he was met with a sight.

Gray armor. Accents in yellow.

Even in his muddled mind, he had known this man.

With his instincts, he also knew who had done this to him.

Voicelessly, he reached forward and laid his palm against the man's chest. Waited for Washington to breathe, to react, to move.

He didn't.

The voices weren't in his mind, weren't directing him anymore, but he wish they were. He yearned for a lack of thought as he reached for his helmet and pushed slowly to his feet.

He knew who had killed his teammate, a former partner. A _monster._ The _Meta._

And even without voices, that was the only identity that he still could be.


End file.
